


need a little time (to wake up)

by visiblemarket



Category: Constantine (TV)
Genre: M/M, So here we are, and then of course it blossomed into some messy case fic vignettes, inspired -- tragically -- by a screencap on tumblr, summer of id fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2019-08-01
Packaged: 2020-07-28 15:28:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20066290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/visiblemarket/pseuds/visiblemarket
Summary: Chas gives her a strange look. “Where is he?”“He’s —" She hesitates; surely Chas’s not unaware of John’s — extracurriculars — but bringing it up this directly feels a little cruel. “Busy?”Chas frowns, eyes flickering as he thinks something over. Then he snorts, and shakes his head. “He’swithsomeone?”Zed nods, and Chas laughs again, louder. “He answered thephone?”





	need a little time (to wake up)

“What’d he say?”

Zed blinks down at her phone. “He’s — coming.” She winces. “I mean — he’s on his way.”

Chas gives her a strange look. “Where is he?”

“He’s —“ She hesitates; surely Chas’s not unaware of John’s — extracurriculars — but bringing it up this directly feels a little cruel. “Busy?”

Chas frowns, eyes flickering as he thinks something over. Then he snorts, and shakes his head. “He’s _with_ someone?”

Zed nods, and Chas laughs again, louder. “He answered the _phone_?” 

Zed gives a somewhat nervous, mostly relieved chuckle of her own. “He said he wasn’t — really doing anything.”

Chas brings a hand to his face as his shoulders shake. “Oh, of course he’s not,” he says, almost giggling. "Jesus, John.”

Zed finds herself laughing too, and follows Chas as he walks toward the cramped dining room where the remnants of the continental breakfast spread will be removed in less than half an hour. 

John will either catch up or he won’t, and Chas will save him a pastry and a piece of fruit anyway, which John knows and is probably counting on.

“Does it bother you?” Zed asks, watching Chas across the table as he sets said piece of fruit — an apple this time — on the plate in front of him and wraps the pastry in a paper napkin that’s already sopping up the sticky sweet glaze.

“Hm?” Chas says, taking a sip from his cup of coffee and making a face — Zed’s avoided it all together, knows better than to trust motel coffee by now, but Chas is apparently an eternal optimist. 

“That John’s—” 

Chas snorts to himself again — he seems genuinely amused, at least — and shakes his head. “That John’s having bad sex?”

“That he’s—“ Zed cocks her head. “You don’t know it’s bad.” 

Chas gives her a look. “If he can take a call during…” he shrugs. “Someone’s not doing their job."

Fair point, Zed thinks, and decides to leave it at that, and not only because that’s when John comes sauntering in, looking more smug than usual and throwing them both a particularly irritating grin before he flops down onto a chair next to Chas, snatching the apple from his plate.

“Good morning,” she says, pointed.

John grins. “Has been for me, at least,” he said, and takes an obnoxiously loud bite. 

*

_ready_? she texts, a little concerned and more than a little annoyed she’s as concerned as she is: check out time was about ten minutes ago and they’d managed to get John’s stuff to the cab thanks to the spare key they usually get of each others’ room, but John himself was nowhere to be found. They can’t exactly afford to linger. The longer they stay the more likely it is that the rest of the town is going to figure out that John’d solved their roaming hellhound problem by permanently dispatching the quite popular local council member who just so happened to be breeding them, and the assassination of public officials is never a good way to ingratiate yourself into a community. 

Chas hands her another bag, which she does her best to shove amongst the rest — how they always seem to have more after a trip than when they pack for it is an occult mystery on its own, though not one she’s particularly eager to unravel — and then slams the trunk shut.

“Is he on his way?” says Chas, leaning against the cab’s door and glancing down at his own phone. “It’s a quarter past."

Zed checks her phone again. There’s one message — _almost_, it says, which — typical. She passes the phone to Chas. 

He reads it, and rolls his eyes. Takes his own phone out and types something out, thumbs slow and deliberate. Zed hears the whoosh of a text sent, and, less than a minute later, the ping of a response. Chas reads it, huffs, and shows it to Zed.

_get ur ASS out here already or we’re leaving w/o u_

** _my ASS s a bit busy_**

And then, in a new message bubble:

_ **😜**_

Zed chokes and looks back at Chas. “Wait, does that mean he’s—“

Chas’s brow furrows, as he does a double take of the messages. “Oh, fuck you, John Constantine,” he says, under his breath, and types something else. He shoves his phone in his pocket, opens the cab door, and gives Zed a nod. “Get in.”

“Is John—“

“He’ll be out,” says Chas, sliding into the driver's seat and slamming the door shut behind him. 

Zed doesn’t doubt it. She gets into the backseat, and settles in to wait. 

Not five seconds later, John comes jogging out from around the far wing of the motel, moving faster than Zed’s seen him move when not actively pursued by an actual demon. 

“Oh, you think you’re a bloody comedian now, do you?” John snarls at Chas as he throws the door open and clambers inside. His tie’s a mess but he’s otherwise fully clothed, and if he’s obviously flushed it could just as easily be explained by the burst of exertion he’d just engaged in than anything. 

“It worked, didn’t it?” Chas says, checking his mirrors and dedicatedly avoiding John’s gaze. 

John flips him off, but sags back into the seat as Chas spins the steering wheel around, and zooms out of the parking lot. 

*

Zed blinks awake. 

It’s starting to get dark, which means Chas’s been driving long enough to need a break. She’s about to offer to take a shift: she always offers at the beginning of a trip and he always turns her down, but sometimes, if the journey back is long and he knows she’s had a chance to rest, he’ll take her up on it on the final stretch. 

She’s about to sit up when she hears Chas speak: “Hey,” he says, and — from the sound of it — smacking John’s arm. “Need someone keeping me awake.” 

“Oh, I’ll keep you awake, all right,” John mutters, shifting in his seat. “Where’re we?” 

“Middle of nowhere,” Chas says. “About…” he gives a thoughtful hum. “About three hours to Atlanta."

“Shit,” John says, muffling a yawn. “Wanna pull over for a bit?”

“Nah,” he answers, low and casual, but then adds a quick, sharp: "We're off schedule."

“Chas—“

“Don’t do that again.”

“Do what?"

“Don’t — if you want to have shitty sex with some — someone you barely know, that’s your business, just —"

“Oh, so I'm havin’ shitty sex, am I?” John says, mostly amused. 

Chas ignores him. “Just don’t hold the rest of us up. We have lives, too, y'know," Chas says, and then, concedes, "I mean. Occasionally."

John is silent, for long enough that it surprises Zed. She cracks her eyelids open just in time to see him nod, swift and decisive. “Right,” he says, and leans back. 

Zed shuts her eyes again.

Waits, for a few minutes — long enough, she hopes, to keep either of them from thinking she’s overheard — and then lets out a quick yawn of her own. 

Sits up, and catches Chas’s eye as he glances back at her. “Hey,” he says, warm. 

“Hey,” she answers, tying her hair back. “Want to switch off?” 

“You up for it?” Chas asks, already glancing to the right for a place to turn off the road. 

She nods, and he pulls over on the shoulder and keeps the lights on as they swap places; John stays where he is, still and silent in that way he gets when he’s considering something he’d much rather ignore.

Zed pulls up the seat and buckles her seatbelt, glancing over at John as she does so.

“What?” he says, quieter than Zed expects but just as sharp. 

Zed wonders at it, as she goes to adjust seat, and then the rearview — catches a glimpse of Chas, who’s out like a light in the backseat. It's a little concerning: Zed’s glad he’s getting the rest but how close had he come to dropping off _while driving?_ She glances at John, prepared to commiserate: something low and sarcastic, before she pulls back onto the highway, to show him there’s no hard feelings from that morning. 

John’s not looking at her, or staring straight ahead, or closing his eyes and dropping off to sleep himself — he’s turned in his seat, just enough to see Chas. Zed watches as he sighs, slight but unmistakably soft and — Zed imagines — somewhat contrite. 

Zed looks back at the road ahead of them, yanks the car into drive, and goes. 

* 

It’s not even nine but they have to head out early today, give themselves enough time to scope out the allegedly haunted cave before the rest of the town shows up with the torches and pitchforks. Chas’d texted her and John the customary, brief _ready?_ message in the morning, and only Zed had responded, a quick _5 mins_ before she threw on some fresh clothes and braided her hair.

Zed and Chas are in the elevator, about to head down to the diner across the parking lot and wait for John there, when they hear someone running down the hallway. Chas holds the elevator door automatically, and John clambers in, bright eyed and fully dressed. 

He throws Chas a lazy but pointed grin. _Happy_? 

Chas rolls his eyes. _Thrilled_. 

But Chas really does seem it — once John’s not looking, he smiles, and he keeps smiling, as they walk to the diner and seat themselves, Chas and Zed facing each other, John sliding in next to Chas.

Then John reaches out for a menu, and Chas’s eyes narrow, focusing on the strip of skin revealed by the shift of his coat. Zed spots it, too: a shiny red welt, thick and angry and all the way around his wrist. 

John jerks his hand back, pulling down the sleeve, but it’s too late: Chas has reached out and grabbed his arm.

“Leave it, Chas,” John says, exasperated, but makes no further effort to avoid Chas’s fingers as they tug at his sleeve and then slide down his arm. 

“What happened last night?” Chas says, low and worried, almost angry, as his fingers trace over the red skin. 

John shakes his head, quick, and gives an almost embarrassed grin. “No, it wasn’t — wasn’t like that, mate, it was—“ he chuckles. “Wasn’t even last night, to be honest, if you — got a bit out of hand, is—”

Chas drops his grip on John’s wrist. “Seriously?” Chas says. "You don’t have a safe word?” John blinks in surprise, and Chas huffs. “I’m almost forty years old, you think I don’t know what a safe word is?” 

“Oh, right, I forgot, master of _kink_ that you are, _Chas Chandler_, but—"

Zed coughs, throwing a pointed glance to the wide-eyed, middle aged waitress in a pink uniform who’s just come by to serve them all coffee.

Chas blinks and turns away, staring dedicatedly out the window and utterly failing to hide the fact that even his ears are pink with embarrassment; John grins, throws the waitress a wink, and holds out an empty cup to be filled.

*

Another day, another town, another of John's half-assed attempt to save people from themselves. 

It ends, as it tends to, with John bleeding: sluggishly, this time, from two puncture wound in his neck, as he lies quietly in the backseat of the cab; Zed, next to him, trying to make sure he isn’t actually dying, just worryingly pale and eerily quiet; and Chas, up front, throwing furtive glances back as Zed does her best to mop up the blood.

“Should I drive?” Zed says, meeting Chas’s eyes as this happens for the third time. Chas swallows, gaze returning to the road.

“What?” 

"Do you want me to drive?"

Chas shakes his head. "Can you drive a stick shift?" he says, vague and distracted. Zed stares, hard, at the back of his neck till he shakes his head, giving a self deprecating laugh. "Yeah. Yeah, you — drive all the time, I don't —"

"Chas," Zed says, kindly as she can, but firm. "Pull over."

Chas does.

* 

Zed parks a few spaces further than she could from the door, beneath the helpful shadows of the motel's peaked roof.

"Can you get him back to his room for me?" says Chas.

Zed nods, as both she and Chas ignore John's indignant mutter of, "Can get meself back to my room, thank you," from the backseat.

Token protest made, John lets himself be helped up and out of the cab, leaning carelessly against the side for a moment to catch his breath. 

Chas does a double take. "You can't go in like that," he says, strained. Zed looks at John straight on: his front is covered in blood, memorably so, and knowing that it's mostly his own makes her stomach turn. Anyone else who saw him would immediately call the police, or an ambulance, or both. Maybe they can go get him a fresh shirt, at least? Zed turns to suggest this to Chas, who's three steps ahead of her, striding purposefully over to John before he can escape. 

He wrestles John out of his trenchcoat — “Fuck, Chas, just _leave_ it," John mumbles, doing little to stop him — and folds it up. Hands it over to Zed, and slips his own flannel jacket off and onto John's shoulders. John rolls his eyes even as he slides his arms into the sleeves — they reach well past the ends of John’s fingertips, and the bottom edge of the flannel is halfway to his knees. Chas quickly buttons the jacket up around him, and John blinks, looking at Chas with such exhausted, unguarded affection that Zed feels guilty for watching. 

Chas, for his part, doesn't seem to notice. Gives John a quick, friendly pat on the chest and turns back around. 

"I'm gonna try to get some more towels," he says over his shoulder, grabbing the folded up trenchcoat as he does, and leaves her and John to stumble their way back to John's room.

*

"Don't worry, love," John says, leaning heavily into her side — she has her arm around his waist, and his arm slung over her shoulders. They’re almost entirely off balance, but for a quick trip down the hall to his room, it’s going to have to do.

"I'm not worried."

John smirks. "If I was going to turn I'd've done it already.”

“Or is that just what you’d say if you had, just to throw us off?” 

John snorts and gives her forehead a weak tap. “Clever,” he manages. “But they jus’ wanted the free meal. Rest of it — rest of it’d mean they’d’ve been stuck with me, hangin’ about and mucking things up. Vampires are odd like that. Like to keep their meals close and their offspring closer.” John frowns to himself. “Make a rather shit vampire, wouldn’t I?"

“You think?”

“Been a shit everythin’ else, haven’t I?" 

Zed doesn’t know how to respond to that — _no, of course not, John, you’re a good friend at least_ seems particularly disingenuous. She’s saved from having to say anything at all by the fact that they've reached John’s door. John slumps down against it as he pats around for his key card. “Fuck, but I need a drink." 

“Are you sure you’re not a vampire?” she says, slightly teasing. 

John rolls his eyes and grabs her wrist — months ago he’d have blanched at it but Zed’s control is much better now, only real slips in moments of intense stress or emotion, and they’re all right now. No one’s dying, John is upright and breathing, it’s fine.

She lets him bring her hand up, guiding her fingers to the side of his neck. “Feel that?” he says, meaning his pulse — steady, but weak. “Vampires’ve got hearts and blood ’n all that, but it don’t circulate anymore. Fact I’m even still bleeding means—“ John pauses, gaze flickering down the hall. Zed feels his pulse quicken for a moment before he lets go of her hand and jerks away, though not fast enough for Zed to miss the golden flash of adoration that sparks through John’s being at whatever — _whoever_ — he’d spotted coming down the hall.

“I got towels, first aid kit, and some juice,” Chas calls, walking up to them. John gives a vague, distracted nod, and turns around. Trying to open the door — pushing the handle down repeatedly — without having inserted the key card first. 

Zed pulls out her copy and slips it into the slot. The lock buzzes, light flashing green, as she pushes the door in for him. John throws her a quick, desperate sort of look and lurches inside. 

Chas follows him, or tries to — John’s turned around and is attempting to block his way. “Thanks, mate,” he says, trying to take the towels, coat, bottle, and first aid kit from him. “See you in the mornin’, then.”

Chas frowns, and keeps a tight hold on most of his cargo, though he does let John retrieve the trenchcoat he’d been carrying under his arm. “Don’t be an idiot.”

John glowers, but he’s too pale and unsteady on his feet to be much of a threat. Chas pushes past him, shaking his head, and Zed surveys the scene: John standing stock still, running one hand through his hair as Chas drops the red first aid kit on the table, then turns back, twisting open the bottle of juice and handing it to John. John blinks, and stares down it, apparently baffled.

“Should I stay?” she feels compelled to ask, though she’s pretty sure she knows the answer. 

“Go get some rest,” Chas says, with a fond smile, as John, not looking at her, snaps, “Yes.”

Chas glances over at him. John shrugs. “Havin’ you alone in my room like this, in my delicate state. Anythin' could happen. Need _someone _here to protect my tender virtue.” 

Chas snorts. “Yeah, she’d have to find it first,” he says, under his breath as he heads toward the bathroom, spare towels in hand, and calls, “Where’d you last have it, Liverpool?” over his shoulder. 

John flips him off, quick and casual, and takes a big chug of his juice. Makes a face, but then takes another sip, nods, and drains the rest of the bottle, as Chas emerges from the bathroom and goes to open the first aid kit.

“Good…night?” Zed offers. 

Chas looks up and gives her a tired smile. “Good night,” he says, before dropping his gaze and opening the first aid kit. 

John looks at her again, and then back at Chas. 

The moment stretches between them — Zed can feel it, the anxious, anticipatory energy rolling off John, adding to the already strange tension in the room. Chas seems less affected, though his fingers stumble a little in their inventory of medical supplies. 

Maybe she should stay. Maybe they need her there, to hold off the foolish, doomed inevitable. Maybe— 

“‘Night, Zed,” John says, and Zed jumps. Looks at John, who gives her a quick smile and a slight, final nod.

Zed presses her lips together, steps back into the hallway, and shuts the door behind her.

*

The quick, sharp knock on her door the next morning wakes her up, and she pads over, yawing, to peer out the peep hole. 

“Oh,” she says, opening the door and swallowing another yawn. “Hello.”

“Hey,” Chas says, bright and cheerful. “I was thinking we could check out a little early, grab breakfast along the way back?”

“Uh,” Zed says, rubbing at her eyes. “Sure. Sounds good. Is John…” 

Chas’s brow furrows. “Is John what?”

“Is John okay?”

“Yeah,” Chas says, quick. “I mean. I think — I mean, he was fine last night.”

“You haven’t seen him since then?”

“Haven’t seen who since then?” says John, coming up behind him as Chas rolls his eyes. 

Zed looks between them — Chas looks tired, like he may have been up later than usual, but John looks — _good_. Freshly shaved, bright eyed, with a slight pink flush to his cheeks. There’s a hint of a bandage peaking out from beneath the color of his bright white shirt, but beyond that, it would be impossible to tell he’d just lost a significant amount of blood to an apparently ravenous pack of vampires the night before. 

She focuses back on Chas. “Do you want me to drive?” she offers, as usual. 

Chas blinks. “That would — y’know. Yeah. Yeah, that’d be great. Thanks.” 

Zed stares in shock, but manages a quick, sincere “No problem,” before ducking back into her room to get ready, though not before she spots the fond, soft smirk on John’s face. 

*

They’ve barely been back at the mill house for a day before they’re heading out again. A friend of Chas’s calling in a favor, this time: a farmer's market regular who’s been trying — and failing — to rent out a cottage at the edge of his property, mostly due to the nightly discordant howls and desperate clawing at the back door.

(“Tell him to call the bloody Ghostbusters, mate, I don’t help _landlords_,” John had sneered. 

“Is that a new rule for you?" Chas had countered, low and vague, and John had thrown up his hands in frustration but stalked out to the cab nonetheless).

It takes half a day to get there but it’s a fairly easy fix, in the end: some of John’s half-philosophical babble about the old ways being the best, an iron horseshoe over the door, and some sage burning in the garden. Zed feels whatever it had been — something sad and familiar and dangerous, like an abandoned feral pet trying to return to an empty home — settle, then dissipate, with a deep, quavering purr.

They spend the night there, just to be sure, and Zed sleeps through til morning. Wakes to find John in the kitchen, attempting to cook breakfast, and Chas on the couch, still fast asleep.

They leave with a trunk full of organic vegetables and homemade jams, fully intending to be back home by the end of the day. 

Brutal, torrential rain and the the threat of a hurricane force them off the highway and to the nearest motel instead, a midcentury throwback with a glowing no vacancy sign and — thankfully — three empty rooms. They say their goodnights in the hallway and trudge off in their separate directions, all soaked through, all eager for a good night’s sleep.

* 

She wakes up later than usual the next morning — no call from Chas, no brief _breakfast_? texts on her phone. 

Nothing from John either, not that she’d really expect there to be. 

Takes a shower, changes her clothes. Pulls up her hair. 

Checks her phone again — no messages, still. Fires off a _good morning?_ to both John and Chas, pulls out her sketchbook, and flips on the television.

She blinks, and half hour has passed: her sketchbook page filled with nothing but open mouths — gasping or yawning, she can’t be sure — and no new messages on her phone. 

A current of concern stirs through her, and she frowns. Puts down her book, picks up her phone and door key, and heads out. 

Calls Chas — it goes straight to voicemail, like his phone's been turned off. Zed has _never_ known Chas to turn his phone off, even when he and Renee were having a particularly contentious period and every phone call left him tense and snappish. She swings by his room first — knocks on the door, twice, and calls his phone again, to no response. 

Holding back her rising panic, she calls John. It rings through at least, and rings, and rings, till finally the generic _you have reached_ message kicks in — it’s a new number and John hasn’t bothered to personalize the voicemail yet. She doesn’t leave a message, but heads toward his room anyway. 

She notices a quiet, steady, almost mechanical sound from the hallway. It’s distant, easy to miss, but her senses are on alert and she wonders, vaguely, what it could be — an air conditioning unit, maybe? — as she walks to John’s room. 

Once there, she calls him again and, through the door, hears the phone buzz. Takes a step closer, preparing to pound on the door or call out to John, but stops short: realizes that the steady metallic sound she’s been hearing is the jangle of bed springs, and, right as she does, they stop. 

“You gonna get that?” she hears, low and teasing, and almost drops her phone. There's no answer, either from inside or to Zed's cell.

“Hmm?” she hears Chas — definitely Chas, she recognizes the low, fond chuckle, even through the door — practically purr. “John? You gonna get that?"

“Fuck,” John moans. “Fuck, you bastard, don’t —“ 

The bed spring jangles start up again, and Zed takes one big, careful step away from the door. 

*

She’s just sitting down to her breakfast of watery oatmeal, a bruised apple, and some supposedly fresh-brewed coffee when Chas appears, rubbing the back of his neck nervously as he takes the seat in front of her. 

“Hey,” she says, friendly, not trying very hard to hide her smile. "I tried to call you.” 

“My phone’s — died. I forgot to — charge it. Last night.”

“Uh-huh,” Zed says, taking a slow sip of coffee. “Sleep well?”

“Yeah. Yeah. Great.” He looks it, too: for all that he’s obviously embarrassed, for all that his hair is ridiculously mussed and his shirt is back to front and inside out, he looks more well-rested than she thinks she’s ever seen him, softer — relaxed — and yet somehow more focused.

“Ready to get back on the road?” she asks, casual but quick.

“The sooner the better." 

“Want me to drive?”

“No, I’m good to—"

“Where’s John?”

“Taking a shower,” he says, too fast, and then cringes. “I mean — I’d assume. That’s where John is. Since he’s not—” 

“Answering his phone either?” Zed offers, innocently.

Chas brings his hand up to cover his face as he blushes, and nods. 

“Uh-huh,” she says, taking another, steadier sip of coffee — it's better than she’d expected, a lot better than motel coffee has any right to be. She’s about to speak again — put Chas out of his misery, at least — when she spots John: strolling in, hair still wet, cheeks still pink. 

He settles gingerly onto the chair next to Chas, flashes Zed a slightly-dazed, entirely sincere smile, and presses a quick kiss to Chas’s cheek. “Mornin’,” he says, still gazing at the side of Chas’s face.

Zed takes a careful bite of her apple. “Good morning,” she answers, and kind of has to admit it has been.

*

**Author's Note:**

> [ANYway.](https://morethanonepage.tumblr.com/post/186094829576)


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